


the tired tide at the shore

by cartographicalspine



Series: refuge for a flock [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fifth Blight, Gen, Lothering, Multiple Origins, Multiple Wardens (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 14:23:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16286282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartographicalspine/pseuds/cartographicalspine
Summary: The roads up from Ostagar have stopped turning up many refugees lately. This morning, however, Bethany has important news for Hawke.





	the tired tide at the shore

**Author's Note:**

> A few details about this fic:
> 
> -Hawke uses they/them pronouns
> 
> -the Hawke family is a custom one so some details on their appearance might be different from the default
> 
> -Morrigan's outfit was changed to suit my perception of her
> 
> -there are seven Grey Warden recruits from Ostagar that Hawke spots here. In order of appearance: Cousland, Aeducan, Brosca, Tabris, Surana, Mahariel, and Amell.

They’re in the back checking on the hens when Bethany comes running, ribbons tangled from the wind and the yard of fabric tucked under her arm a wrinkled mess that will set Mother off again. She’s flushed, out of breath, and hasn’t even dropped her shopping off in the foyer, which makes Hawke stop and look over their shoulder a moment, hand still on the latch because their chickens are sly little things. Can’t exactly trust their patchy, ragged rooster not to cause trouble either.

“The south road has a whole lot of people on it again,” their sister pants, brushing wild strands of dark hair from her face. “I saw from Dane’s and Ser Maron says it’s true: they’re Ostagar. They’re still coming, Tiggy.”

Hawke wants to remind her that even after the Teryn...the Regent’s troops and the survivors were pulled out of most of the Hinterlands, all the remaining stragglers were refugees and Chasind tribes, people lucky enough to have found enough time purchased with the army lost at Ostagar to flee. If any soldiers survived, they would have come with the retreat or immediately afterwards. Carver…

Their throat clenches and their mind refuses to go any further with those thoughts.

But Bethany’s eyes have a fierce and brilliant light in them; she and Carver inherited their father’s pride and independence, their mother’s headstrong and fiery nature, and it’s why Hawke straightens and follows her back to Lothering despite knowing better by this point.

On the knoll that overlooks the little village, Bethany takes their hand and pulls them into a sprint as though she hasn’t already run the path twice this morning.

“Bethy!” They have long given up the idea that they’ll ever keep up with the twins; Bethany and Carver shot up like beanstalks soon after they hit double digits and tease Hawke constantly about it. It _is_  rather funny, they have to admit, but they’d give anything to be the tallest right now. “Shorter legs! Disadvantage here! A little warning would be appreciated!”

Bethany shoots them a grin over her shoulder, the sun casting a glow on her russet brown skin. “Can’t be all too bad if you still have energy to complain about it, Tiggy!”

They can’t help the startled laugh that bursts from their mouth as she lets go, and they chase her all the way past the old windmill and into the village limits. They slow down as they hit the crowded center soon, rows and rows of tents and makeshift bunks that make up the camps, a great mass of people milling about to trade and buy what they can, to search for a way to keep surviving and moving, or just trying to get past the shock of losing everything they had.

The refugees coming from the south road look exactly like that for the most part, people who have nothing and come into more nothingness; for all that Lothering is such a key and strategic point on the North Road, they don’t have the resources to handle the fallout from Ostagar. They’re just doing their best to keep the peace and sustain the situation but even that’s at its limit now. It really feels like they’ve been abandoned at this point, and Hawke doesn’t know what to make of this.

Brooding, they trail Bethany over the bridge and search the crowd spilling down from the highway, straining for a glimpse above people’s heads or for a high point from which to watch. They know their sister is already looking, too, for a glimpse of that second hand armor or that recast longbar sword Carver worked for months to have the blacksmith shape for him. But there are so few obvious warriors, and even less of them are tall and broad-shouldered like their brother. There’s a moment where Hawke sees what might be a soldier, but the man, while brown and broad like Carver, has lighter, shorter hair and grinning hazel eyes that aren’t anything like their brother’s somber grey blue eyes.

They’re quickly losing hope, but Bethany has tugged them toward one of the fences that haven’t been torn down to make room for tents or wagons and makes them climb up, and from there they get a better look at the man-who-is-not-a-soldier.

There’s something about him that doesn’t match up with the others, but Hawke and Bethany have seen soldiers hiding within the masses of refugees before. But he doesn’t really move like a soldier either, not really. Neither does the young, distant, dead-eyed archer with the mabari at his side the only reason he seems to still be on his feet. Eyes rimmed red and swollen, and though they’re blue, it’s not Carver’s blue, and Hawke moves on past that heartbroken young man (it’s definitely heartbreak, they know the look of someone who has lost their whole world) to the others, really _strange_ others.

Hawke has seen dwarves before, the few merchants that sometimes come through Lothering on the way to better, more important places. That cheery, kind one (Bohem or something, with his sweet kid) who has just moved on north, comes to mind. But these dwarves act nothing like the dwarves they’ve met; they somehow manage to look absolutely lost in the bright sunlight and entirely oriented in the middle of this crisis at the same time. One of them, a dark and surprisingly tall woman with pale hair and eyes, alternates between grousing at the sky and snapping commands at the few templars stationed at the gates. The other, nothing but warm browns and ambers and pretty, tight-coiled curls, talks in a smooth, easy way that sets everyone at ease, even if she clings tightly to the elven woman at her side whenever she glances more than a couple of feet up.

There’s three elves in the group, and for a moment Hawke thinks they might be Dalish by the way they carry themselves. The moment passes, and for the most part they’re obviously not from the woods. The elven woman looks like she might be from the city, torn and ragged edges to her clothes and hair and demeanor. She’s serene and meek and soft regardless, hiding her bright, angular eyes under a hooded gaze and a smile, but Hawke can feel the distrust she levels at them even from a distance. She obviously doesn’t want to be anywhere near this crowd of humans, destitute or not. Behind her, the other two don’t so much as follow as they stride, cutting a path through the crowd. The first, pale and golden undertones not too dissimilar from the elven woman’s fawn skin, almost _scatters_  people with his dark, haughty expression that probably wouldn’t look out of place in some castle or court. He acts like he’s made of something else, different, apart from the ordinary, and Hawke is almost reminded of the way their father looked sometimes, rare moments of certainty and arrogance alike,

The last elf is a child, really, but this one _is_ Dalish; the extensive and intricate markings on their face are stranger and more beautiful than Genitivi could have ever described. _They_ are beautiful and it isn’t just appearance and adornments, though they’ve done plenty with both, but it’s in the way they smile and flit around from companion to companion, trying to be happy even in the face of so much misery. Lothering could use more of that, honestly.

They’re trailed by a barking, yelling dog that reminds Hawke of Carver’s poor mabari stuck minding chickens and rabbits back on the homestead, and then two tall women round up the group. The first looks Chasind, dressed in leather and fur and wrapped sensibility against the cold, hair swept up in a practical knot, eyes a cold and acerbic color that looks like gold under her purple face paint. She sneers at the crowds as they part but also tends to give thoughtful looks at some of the refugees. Perhaps she doesn’t mean to but Hawke has always been good at noticing little things. Her companion, however, is the one who steals their attention entirely, because it’s then that Bethany, fighting off disappointment and despair more and more these days, grabs their arm tightly and gasps in a tremulous whisper, “Tiggy! That girl looks so much like us...like Mother!”

Hawke can only stare in shock as the girl, turning her sun-flushed face in their direction, flashes a smiling pair of slate-blue eyes across the crowds.

“ _Those are Carver’s eyes!”_


End file.
